Unspoken Words
by Little Author
Summary: It is some time shortly after Sherlock Holmes had jumped to his death. Dr. John Watson is left reeling from the loss of his best friend. John had a lot to say, but some words he felt were better left unsaid.


_**Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to BBC's Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's characters. Everything here has been written for enjoyment of the author and is not intended for profit in any way.**_

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John Watson stared blankly at the walls of his new flat, hand around a glass of something alcoholic (he did not care what it was, only that it took the edge off). He sat in a newly acquired arm chair, secondhand and tattered. John had a perfectly good chair, his favourite in fact, back home. _Home? This is my home now_. The ice in his glass clinked against the sides as he moved his bad leg into a more comfortable position. _Damn leg, hasn't been the same since_…The ice shook more violently. He looked around the flat again. Boxes were strewn about in a haphazard way, clothes were piled on the bed, and old take away cartons were stacked in piles on the dining table. John had tried to unpack, to empty all of the boxes and move in properly but he could not bring himself to finish. To finish unpacking meant to accept that this new flat was his home and that he would never set foot in 221B Baker Street again. To finish meant that his best friend was…John took a shaky sip, ice sliding against the glass. He relished the drink burning down his throat and the numbing warmth it brought to his mind and body. He knew that drinking was not a healthy way to handle his feelings. Hell, he was a doctor! Feelings. What use were feelings anyway? _Christ, I'm starting to sound like _him. John took a larger gulp, his unoccupied hand clenched in a fist against the chair.

His therapist would not approve of his actions either. Not that his sessions were doing any good. John remembered the first session after…after what had happened. She told him it was completely natural to grieve, that it was normal to feel that way when someone close had suddenly passed away. "The stuff you wanted to say, but didn't say it." John felt so much but could not, would not say anything. The ice rattled against his glass. Tension settled in his shoulders, his neck. His chest felt constricted, as if his loss had settled there right on top of his lungs, heavy and unmoving. John had said it eventually, the stuff he wanted to say. At the…his…grave.

_You…you told me once that you weren't a hero._ Him, not a hero? Sherlock? John sighed, trying to alleviate the pain in his chest. It was almost as if something had been physically ripped from his body, and just thinking the name made the wound painfully obvious. Sherlock was a hero, in his own way. At least, to John he was. _Nobody could be that clever. You could._ The detective had a gift, and he used it. Admittedly he used his gift in an entirely narcissistic and self-serving way, but he did in fact help others bring justice to those who deserved it. Now Sherlock would never see it that way, but John did. John _knew_ him.

_Um, there were times I didn't even think you were human but let me tell you this: you were the best man and the most human, human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie._ Sherlock had always prided himself on being clever and being above his emotions, better than everyone at his craft. John snorted and downed the last of his drink. _Prick._ He remembered the night at the inn after Sherlock had seen the hound. John was torn between exasperation and amusement as Sherlock confessed what he had seen earlier that night. John had not expected Sherlock to snap. He had, and it hurt. Sherlock was only human after all. The doctor knew that underneath, Sherlock cared, that Sherlock was his friend. It was how the pair found it hilarious when John found Sherlock wearing nothing but a sheet in Buckingham Palace and called Mycroft the queen. It was in the way Sherlock always tended to Mrs. Hudson and protected her at all costs. It was the way Sherlock protected _him_, how the detective was concerned for his safety and ripped off the bomb off John asking him if he was alright. Sherlock Holmes was a good man. As for the lie? John knew that Sherlock was the real thing. He had seen him deduct things from the slightest clues, and they were all brilliant. Sherlock was brilliant. There was a reason for Sherlock to admit that he lied. He couldn't have lied. Just couldn't have.

_I was so alone and I owe you so much. Now there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me: don't be dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it, stop this. _John covered his face with his hands. He did not want to remember his words. Underneath all his pain, he still hoped that maybe this was all a trick. That maybe, Sherlock was being clever and that somehow he would have found a way to still be alive. John knew that it was just denial, that there was no possible way his best friend could be alive. He saw it. Saw him. Checked his pulse, saw the blood on the pavement in front of St. Bart's. _That's my friend._ Still. Sherlock _could_ be that clever.

John slowly raised himself from his chair and stiffly walked over to the dining table, empty glass in hand. He found the mostly empty bottle and poured the rest into his glass. _Was that the fourth…or the fifth?_ He sat himself back into the chair and rubbed his eyes. _What difference does it make?_ The doctor never got to tell the detective what he wanted to say, and when he did get to say it, Sherlock wasn't around to hear it. Not that Sherlock would have wanted to hear it. Sentiment, he would have said. John smiled faintly. There was one thing that he never said aloud at the grave and would never tell Sherlock, dead or alive. Men did not say things like that. _He_ did not say things like that. _Sentiment._ John downed the rest of his drink and set the glass down forcefully on the wooden arm of the chair. The walls stared blankly back at him, reflecting the dull emptiness he found within his own heart. _I love you._

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**_Author's Note: This is my first attempt at fan fiction in a very long time. Years. I feel a little rusty. It's a bit like trying to ride a bike when you haven't been on one since you were ten. You know how to do it, but the execution is sloppy. I also tried my hand at some British spellings. I do not regularly use those spellings, so if I am inconsistent, feel free to let me know!_**

**_I do want to explain my view on the ending a bit, since there are so many strong opinions on John and Sherlock's relationship and the ending may cause alarm for some. I feel that it is up to the reader to decide, to read in what they will. Love is both platonic and romantic. Whether John says I love you as a brother or I love you as in he really is in love with Sherlock is up to you._**

**_Thanks for reading! Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome!_**

**_-LA_**


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